


a shot to remember

by deadbrave



Series: the bane chronicles [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Guilt, Japanese Internment, Loss of Faith, PTSD, Rock Springs Massacre, Suicide, World War I, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:13:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadbrave/pseuds/deadbrave
Summary: inspired by the pacific (specifically portions of episode 4) and being human uk (specifically portions of s3 episode 1).tw for suicide, mentions of rape, racism/hate crimes, minor character death & a lot of violent descriptions. please be careful if any of these things might trigger you!“Did you hurt them, Magnus? The people who did that to Li Jun?” Catarina questioned, head cocked, dark gaze boring into his own.“No,” Magnus clenched his fist, reaching for the doorknob only to find that it scalded his skin. The warlock jumped back, eyes wide as they took in Catarina’s amused expression. “I didn’t do a thing to them. I should’ve.”“It wouldn’t have brought Li Jun back though, would it?”“It wouldn’t have,” Magnus sighed, “I couldn’t save him, but maybe it would--”“What?” Catarina asked, lips quirked. “Would’ve been some form of justice? No, Magnus."
Relationships: Magnus Bane & Ragnor Fell, Magnus Bane/Original Male Character(s) - past
Series: the bane chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1613527
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	a shot to remember

The one thing that Magnus Bane had learned through centuries of living was that war was hell. It was what soldiers told one another in passing as a means of comfort and solace, but it was factual nonetheless. War  _ was _ hell. It always had been, though some were fought for valiant and justifiable reasons, they were always brutal, incompassionate things that ended with a whimper and countless lives lost. 

After the Great War, what had been dubbed ‘the War to End All Wars’, Magnus had hoped there’d at least be a brief respite in conflict that was promised between such powerful nations, only to find that darkness grew in between the sparse flowers that had blossomed on the pieces of earth that were forever rotten. Alt-Right Nationalism rose from the ashes of post-war Germany and an urgent need to stick to one’s own kind and shun ‘others’ burned in the fire of Europe’s heart. Human beings always appeared to have an innate fear of what was different, of what didn’t fit into their perfect, cookie-cutter lives. 

Magnus had been ostracized by society for many things in his time. His race, his ethnicity, his faith, his sexuality, his species, hell, he’d even been hated by some because his father was the Prince of Edom. Prejudice was nothing new to the warlock after centuries of life, however, what he’d heard of what had been happening in Europe from his friends and contacts there shook him to his core. Even though he’d just dealt with the horrors and gore of war only twenty years ago, Magnus enlisted in the United States military--the Marines, apparently, were the best of the best, and if Ragnor wanted the two of them to get screamed at by a Gunny Sergeant for months of training, then so be it. 

Magnus had a history of being a combat medic. Unlike Ragnor, he’d always enjoyed healing others more than causing them harm. However, after what had happened two decades previously, Magnus couldn’t trust his healer hands to work as they should. No, his hands could only bring blood and destruction; any love and care that used to lay within him had long gone dormant. At least, that’s what Magnus would tell himself to survive yet another brutal conflict and the aftermath, which was never predictable given the ebb and flow of Ragnor’s mental state. 

Fortunately, it had been decided that the Marines were to be shipped out to the South Pacific. This was lucky for Magnus, as he despised the cold and had suffered greatly when trapped on the frozen continent of Europe for four years during the Great War. This placement wouldn’t allow for him to face the Nazis head-on as he’d prefer to, but perhaps it would keep Magnus’ complaints down to a minimum. One could hope. 

Guadalcanal had been hell. No amount of training in the world would have prepared them for this--Magnus had seen war countess times; had been at the head of the Union assault during the Civil War, had been fist deep in soldiers’ chests during the Great War, but this--God, Magnus wished more than ever that he could wipe his memory without any unwanted side effects. They’d had a bit of respite in Melbourne, well deserved, but short-lived, as they were forced to return to those damned islands, which was not something that the lost little island boy thought he’d ever refer to those bits of land as. 

“It’s Guadalcanal all over again,” Magnus sighed as he helped Ragnor tie his Marine issued hammock between two lengthy palm trees, lips pursed in utter frustration. Most of the time the wait was worse than the fight itself, the anticipation grew to something painful and urgent, blood hot and thrumming in preparation for what was to come. Magnus’ fingers itched to grasp the trigger of his M1; he didn’t ache to kill, but any form of action was much preferred to inaction and the unknown. 

Ragnor arched a brow, wrapping the other end of the hammock with sure and quick movements. “Maybe this is one of the tactics that the Japanese use to lull us into a sense of false security. You remember the silence before a Confederate volley--they just want us to think that they’ve abandoned their posts. I’m sure before too long we’ll be in a firefight, fret not, my dear.” A lot had happened between their first day on Cape Gloucester and their last together in France. 

What had been frightful indifference to his own life had turned into numbness and apathy on the whole for Ragnor, except in the case of Magnus’ health and wellbeing. Back on Guadalcanal, Magnus had been a witness to many bursts of hysterical laughter on Ragnor’s behalf, choked, half aborted little things that were quickly followed by silent tears and an expression entirely devoid of emotion. More concerning, these were most often brought on by the sight of his fellow Marines dying, and there was nothing that Magnus could conjure to his tongue that would be able to aid his brother now, no meager attempts at comfort that would drag him down from the ledge he’d been precariously dangling from for damn near a century. It appeared that as long as the world was shattered in pieces, so would Ragnor Fell be, too. Magnus could only hope that this wouldn’t mean losing the one person he cared for most in the world for eternity. 

Seeing as patrols were the only means of keeping oneself entertained currently, Magnus jumped at the opportunity, especially given that someone had to keep an eye on Ragnor, and it certainly wouldn’t be anyone else chosen for the patrol squad. Six men maneuvered through tall stalks of bamboo, rifles in hand and eyes narrowed to slits as they took in their surroundings, or what they could see through the excessive amount of vegetation. The quiet was eerie and unwelcome, sweat hot while it clung to his skin, dripping downward to land on his already soaked uniform. Magnus couldn’t remember the last time that heat had been so oppressive, thick in the air, he struggled to take each and every breath. Or perhaps that was fear causing his lungs to stutter? 

The only warning was the remaining noises in the jungle aside from the crunch of plants beneath boot becoming hush; birds went silent, the chatter of insects simmered down. The call of ‘sniper!’ sounded from the front of the parade and Magnus ducked, eyes widening fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins. 

“Magnus!” Magnus’ blood ran cold--he knew that voice, would know it in the darkest depths of hell itself. A few feet ahead of him, Ragnor lay on the forest floor, hand pressed to his abdomen, blood mixing with spittle against the tan skin of his chin. For the briefest of moments, Magnus was back in France in 1917, cool wind nipping at his ankles, another dying form prone and helpless in front of him. “Magnus, please.” Ragnor was begging for help. Magnus snapped out of it, foolishly dropping his rifle to the side so he could run forward, kneeling in the slick puddle of blood beside his reason for living. 

“Oh Gods, Ragnor,” Magnus murmured, tears burning at the corners of his eyes. He dropped his palm to Ragnor’s side, pressing hard just above the wound in an attempt to impede the flow, mere moments from defying all law and logic and just using his magic to save his oldest friend. “Please, stay with me. Look at me.” With his other hand, Magnus grasped Ragnor’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze, however out of focus it may have been. “Stay with me. Corpsman! Cook, go back and get a Corpsman.” It didn’t matter that he was no longer a CO, Edom be damned, Magnus was not letting Ragnor die. “Hey,” He looked down at Ragnor again, tears rolling freely down his dirty cheeks. “You’re not going anywhere. Cook’s getting you help.” 

“Magnus, let me go.” Ragnor croaked, reaching up with his bloodied fingers, smearing the sticky substance against his paled features. A shift--Magnus returned to France; screams echoing off holy walls, the dark eyes he was staring into now filled with agony and exhaustion. Ragnor had lived so many lives, centuries upon centuries of suffering, endless war, cycles of violence that never seemed to cease. He couldn’t die like this, not on the consecrated grounds of that Church that was all but demolished, not here in the middle of a jungle on some island so far away from home. Though they’d always been home for each other, hadn’t they? “Let me go.” 

“No, you’re not leaving me. You can’t do this to me.” Magnus wasn’t past pleading--he’d begged for many things in his time, and this was Ragnor’s life he was dealing in. Just as Magnus’ palm had begun to glow with its gentle blue hue, another shot was fired. The last thing that he saw was the pain that haunted Ragnor’s dark gaze. 

  
  


This wasn’t home. This wasn’t the warm island he was born on, nor was it his shared loft in New York with Ragnor, his escape in London. It wasn’t Cape Gloucester, either. Magnus was on the floor; more specifically, his legs were numb and he was lying on top of the itchiest shag carpet that had ever existed. Once he got past the tragic state of decoration of...wherever he was, Magnus shook his legs, one at a time, to awaken them, before he stood, wiping the still wet blood from his fingertips onto his mud-caked uniform. One look down the longest hallway in the world and Magnus froze in his spot, brows furrowing. “Catarina?” 

Catarina was not the bright and cheerful presence that she normally was, and it wasn’t just because the space was poorly lit and forced the warlock to squint--no, her spirit was dimmed. She offered Magnus a small, pitying smile as she approached, hands clasped behind her back. “What are you doing here, Cat? Where is here, anyway?” Magnus thought that he had died. Catarina wasn’t dead, was she? “Are you dead?” 

“No. I’m not really her, either. This was just the form that we thought would suit you best,” Now that Catarina was beside him, Magnus could tell that though this looked like his friend, it was not. Those were eyes that lacked a soul; lifeless, empty. 

“Alright, Not Catarina. I’ll bite. Where are we?” Magnus crossed his arms, building a barrier between more than just himself and the chill. This endless corridor reminded him of a time he’d rather like to forget--he could still hear the moans of those infected with the Spanish Flu, so young, diminishing before his very eyes. It was all too similar to those wards. 

“You haven’t figured it out yet? You’re dying, Magnus.” Magnus looked away from Catarina’s gaze, swallowing to try and get rid of the bile rising in his throat. “This is a test, of sorts. If you pass, you live. If you don’t, well...either way, you won’t be here long. Are you up for the challenge?” 

“Challenge? How do I even know this is real?” Magnus lived in a world of magic that mundanes couldn’t even dream up in their most outrageous fantasies, and even he had a hard time believing that there was something after death, certainly not a purgatory challenge that determined whether you were worthy to continue on. God knew that Magnus believed that a moral test was something he would fail--he had lost that battle long ago. 

“You don’t, but it couldn’t hurt, could it?” Catarina’s smile sent a shiver down Magnus’ spine; the other warlock turned the knob of the door in front of them, gesturing Magnus forward into the comforting glow of candlelight. He was as helpless to it as a moth to a flame. The sight that awaited them nearly forced Magnus to his knees, stomach churning as his chest stilled. It was something that haunted him on his worst days, replaying over and over behind his closed eyelids. 

Magnus’ mother, Cahaya Lutfi, the woman that had raised him from his birth, hung limply from the support beam of their modest hut, tips of her toes brushing against the dirt floor. She was still warm when Magnus found her, but her eyes were empty, like the Not Catarina that stood beside him, gaze hot on the side of his face. Magnus didn’t know how to react--he was no longer that little boy that he had been nearly three hundred years ago and he was not actually here again. Cahaya was long dead and buried. 

“What are we doing here?” Magnus asked Catarina, doing everything he could to maintain a semblance of composure. He looked everywhere but the body of his mother, moving listlessly to right the chair that lay on the ground beside her. 

“I don’t even know where we are. Who is that?” Right. This wasn’t actually Catarina--she wouldn’t know anything about him. Magnus forced himself to swallow, pacing toward the fireplace, staring into the mesmerizing flame. 

“Jakarta, Dutch East Indies, January 10th, 1646. I had just gotten my warlock mark. I’m not sure what happened, she--my mother, it must’ve triggered her memory of how I was created. She ran from me and by the time I caught up, I found her like this. I was only a child--almost twelve. My mother killed herself because she found out what I really was.” It was something that he reminded himself every time he’d gotten it into his head that he may actually be a good person. No one good could cause something like this. 

“Nasty thing, isn’t it? That warlocks can only be made through acts of deception and rape.” Catarina didn’t seem too distressed by the subject herself; perhaps she was just here to goad Magnus on. She had said this was a test, however, he didn’t quite understand how this could be a test. If it was, he hadn’t had a chance--he had failed before they even stepped through the doorway. 

“Yes, it is. Trust me when I speak for all warlocks and say that we often wish we were never born. No one wants their parent, or anyone, to go through something like that, especially for them, I--” For as long as Magnus could remember, he’d wanted to be dead, to have never been born of an act so cruel and dehumanizing. “But what’s the point? Why are we here, Cat? I’ve failed this test as I’ve failed her, and there’s nothing I can do to change that now.” 

Back was the emotionless smile; at the same time that Magnus took a step toward her, someone shouted in pain outside. Magnus jammed his eyes shut, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Where are you now?” Catarina knew what was happening outside, why was she asking him? He replied anyway. 

“My stepfather burst in when he realized that he didn’t know where my mother was. He blamed it on me, called me a monster. He took me by the neck and tried to drown me in the well outside. I--I couldn’t control it. I was dying. My magic it, well...I killed him. One moment, I was drowning and the next I was choking up water beside the well.” 

“The first person you ever killed. I mean, I don’t blame you. That man forced your mom to marry him even though he already owned her as property, raped his own slave. The people around you suffer, don’t they?” It was as though this version of Catarina was behind the little voice in the back of Magnus’ head, dark and overwhelming. Magnus felt as though he might throw up as he met her gaze again. “They weren’t the only people you couldn’t save, were they?” 

“I don’t understand,” Magnus murmured, ignoring the rhythmic creaking of rope to his right. “If this is part of the test, haven’t I failed already?” 

“No, Magnus. Come along,” Catarina offered Magnus her hand, and though it was room temperature and dry as sandpaper, he would take any comfort he could get in a time like this. They exited the hut, though the door was different than it had been before--it was no longer the door to his first home, but one he had tried to forget for sixty years. 

The room was engulfed in flame, yet as the duo stepped through the doorway, they were unharmed by the blaze that surrounded them. They weren’t marred by the fire, but the charred remains that lay by the shattered window sure had been. Magnus’ shoulders fell and he dropped Catarina’s hand, lifting his own to touch the miraculous flames. At least it was something to distract him. 

“Where are we, Magnus?”

“Rock Springs, Wyoming. September 2nd, 1885. I never thought that I would move away from the city, but Li Jun convinced me, somehow. It wasn’t too hard after the Chinese Exclusion Act was passed in 1882. We didn’t want to be anywhere near people, Li Jun wanted to mine, I just wanted to be with him. I could handle the vast expanse of nothingness out there for him. What I couldn’t handle was the pervasive racism, even in the middle of nowhere.” Magnus removed his fingers from the fire and clutched his hand to his chest, gaze far away. 

“After the fact, I was told that it started in the mines. A fight broke out between two Chinese miners and ten white miners. One died of his wounds, the other survived, miraculously. I had been at the grocers when it started before a Union Pacific official shut them down. It was a bit of a walk from town to home--by the time I got back, our hut was in flames. Li Jun was already dead, I couldn’t do anything but run into the hills and hide with the others, in the grass. I couldn’t leave him, not like that.” 

Magnus’ gaze finally landed on the body across from them, heart stuttering painfully in his chest. “When the riot calmed down enough, I portalled back here. I took Li Jun’s body and left, brought him to his mom. They were never prosecuted, the murderers. Rock Springs Massacre. It caused months of anti-Chinese violence, so much pointless death, and the killers weren’t even jailed. I never wanted to actively hurt someone, but...every time I think of Li Jun, I feel so helpless.” 

“Did you hurt them, Magnus? The people who did that to Li Jun?” Catarina questioned, head cocked, dark gaze boring into his own. 

“No,” Magnus clenched his fist, reaching for the doorknob only to find that it scalded his skin. The warlock jumped back, eyes wide as they took in Catarina’s amused expression. “I didn’t do a thing to them. I should’ve.” 

“It wouldn’t have brought Li Jun back though, would it?” 

“It wouldn’t have, ” Magnus sighed, “I couldn’t save him, but maybe it would--” 

“What?” Catarina asked, lips quirked. “Would’ve been some form of justice? No, Magnus. You’ll find that your life would’ve been much different if you decided to pursue them yourself. Trust me. They got what they deserved in the end.” 

“What? Like going to hell? Even if God is real, I doubt that he’d allow so many awful things to happen and stand by like he has no part in it. He would be cruel and undeserving, then. They didn’t go to hell. For all I know, those miners are still alive and well despite it all.” 

Catarina chuckled, shaking her head as she opened the door, taking Magnus’ hand again. Although he had only been there briefly, he had an intimate knowledge of this field, even under the cover of darkness. Silvestre’s dead eyes stared at him from the Private’s final resting place against the fence that Magnus had leaned his body against. He could still feel the cool metal of Silvestre’s locket and dog tags wrapped around his fingers, a permanent reminder of the young man he’d allowed to die in his arms because he’d forgotten what his use was. Those eyes would follow Magnus to his grave. He didn’t need to be prompted this time. 

“Western France, November 21st, 1917. I was put on a mission to rescue Ragnor and his men because he asked for me. Silvestre and Burke were assigned to come along. There was a sniper posted as a guard, and they killed him. Silvestre died in my arms and I didn’t lift a finger to stop it.” Magnus lifted his hands to his face, sickened by the blood that would never wash off of them, no matter how hard he scrubbed. “I forgot I had magic. Can you believe that? I’d been so used to using my hands to heal that I didn’t even think of it as a possibility.” It would’ve been funny if it weren’t so damn sad and pathetic. 

“We never know how we’re going to respond in any given situation. Some might say you did the best you could since you did what a mundane would’ve done.” Catarina seemed pensive, thoughtful, and for once, not instantly against him. 

“Maybe, but what am I good for if I can’t save the people that I’m entrusted with, the people that I love? Why do they keep dying instead of me?” There was the crux of the issue. Magnus didn’t find himself worthy of life, of anything if he wasn’t able to save people, especially the people that he loved. 

“Can’t you see that it’s not your fault, Magnus? You are not fate, you don’t decide these things. You just have to do the best you can and move on.” Catarina reached for his hand again, but this time, they did not move toward another door. “You can’t keep blaming yourself. You have to let go.” 

_ Let go. Let me go.  _

Magnus dropped Catarina’s hand as though it was a hot iron, backing away from the sight of Silvestre, pressing his palms over his ears as a voice repeated the words in his head, over and over again.  _ Let me go. Let me go _ . 

Ragnor stood in front of him in a crumbling, rotting church, gaze hollow as it perforated his own.  _ “I mean what I said. You shouldn’t have come. We’re all going to die, and it will be meaningless as we’re but bodies in the machine of war. And it’s not as though this war will ever end, Bane, you know this. How many wars have we fought in?”  _

_ “How many people have we watched die for a cause greater than themselves and only have the stakes raised higher? As the world develops, as time goes on, there will just be more war, more death until we are all destroyed in totality because we cannot overcome our differences. I can’t bear it anymore, Magnus! I cannot bear to see another man’s limb blown from him, to see another mother lose her only child, I cannot bear to watch the world crumble in my hands for one more day, knowing that I am just a speck in the grand scheme of things. We are nothing but servants to an unceasing God that is desperate for blood, that hungers for our loss and devours our souls when we fall to a fruitless cause. We are nothing, Magnus Bane, and I cannot be nothing for a moment longer! So leave! Let me die, Bane, let me go! I cannot take another minute of this monotony!”  _

Magnus tore his hands away from his ears and glared at his brother--corporeal or not, he could not take this a moment longer. “You’re not going to die, Ragnor! I’m tired of losing people. I’m tired of watching the people I love suffer and bleed and turn to ash between my fingertips. You are all I have left, don’t you understand? If I have to rip your soul back from the very hands of death itself, I will. I’m not failing you, not this time.” 

The Ragnor in front of him loosened his stance as though a weight had just fallen from his shoulders, and a small smile curled the edges of his lips upwards. “I know you won’t, Magnus. You never have. Now rest...you’re going to need it.” Ragnor slowly lifted his palm; at the same time, a puddle of darkness appeared beneath Magnus’ feet. As Ragnor’s hand moved upwards, Magnus began to sink through the muck before he was swallowed whole by the darkness, a silent scream falling from his lips. 

Magnus startled awake, this time, thankfully, in a very uncomfortable mattress that could only belong to a field hospital. Ragnor sat beside his bed in a rickety chair, a book resting forgotten in his lap. “Where are we?” 

“We’re at a field hospital on Banika. Didn’t think you’d get rid of me that easily, did you?” Ragnor grinned, mischievous as he used to be many decades ago. “Don’t worry about that right now. Go back to sleep, Magnus. We have plenty of time to get back to the war. Forever, even.” 

“Just don’t leave, Ragnor. Please.” 

Warm fingers wrapped around his own and squeezed. Magnus closed his eyes, settling back against the pillow. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” 

  
  


The military had done its best to ingrain a certain amount of anti-Asian sentiment into those that joined up or were drafted because of the fact that Japan was part of the Axis powers and thus were the enemy. To the American people, this meant that all Asians, because it was impossible to distinguish them (at least, that’s the belief that resided in the heart of racists), were the enemy. No shit for brains Marine was going to give a fuck that Magnus was Chinese-Indonesian (more specifically, Chinese ethnically and Indonesian culturally), they would just do their best to bully him until he did something that got him court-martialled or killed. 

Magnus was made of stronger stuff than they would ever give him credit for. He and Ragnor made it through their second global conflict with scars, but intact, pieced together by glue and the careful hands of one other. Magnus left Ragnor on the troop train, heading towards New York City. He would join Ragnor eventually, but first, he wanted to visit Li Jun’s grave in California and investigate something peculiar. While Magnus was overseas, it seemed that the United States took a page from the book of their enemy and erected camps for political prisoners; those that they considered untrustworthy just because of their genetic makeup. 

Magnus had gotten a letter from a friend, a werewolf who he had known for years, Haruto, that described the situation that had occurred not long after Magnus left for boot camp. Japanese folk, citizens or otherwise, that lived on the West Coast and other sections of the country, were rounded up and forced into concentration camps. They were not as vile and malicious as those built by the Nazis, but the intentions behind them were the same: the separation of an ‘other’, anything disliked by the powers that be. Although the excuse was a perceived possibility of disloyalty from the Japanese population, from what Magnus garnered, it was based solely on racial prejudice, the same that he and Li Jun had faced half a century before. 

Manzanar. The name was anything but menacing, though as Magnus approached the barbed wire fencing, a certain, innate, deep-rooted fear settled in his chest, and his footsteps grew reproachful. A guard on the other side glared at him, trigger finger twitching, even though Magnus was still wearing his uniform. It didn’t matter that he had served in the military--Magnus was the enemy because he was different. 

Magnus took a few careful, precious steps forward, wrapping his fingers around the fence, sorrow flooding through him at the sight before him. It seemed that the people of this country would never learn their lesson--but Magnus had, and he wasn’t just going to sit by and let history repeat itself. Taking a deep breath, Magnus made his way to the entrance, head held high as he prepared himself for the task ahead. He was not leaving Haruto to suffer. No one would suffer because of his failures again. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> massive thank you to nightmaresintofireflies, who this wouldn't exist without! i hope this follow up lives up to any expectations you might have. <3


End file.
